


Just A Little Change

by TheTeaIsAddictive



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Bodyswap, F/M, Post-Canon, he won't be called adam but i have reasons for it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2018-12-23 03:43:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11981412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTeaIsAddictive/pseuds/TheTeaIsAddictive
Summary: Belle Dupont said 'I love you' before the last petal fell. Belle Beaumont didn't. Agathe tried to help, but accidentally swapped one Belle's mind for the other. Stuck in an alternate universe, with a prince they don't recognise, will they ever find their way back?ETA 6/12/18 -- ABANDONED





	1. Chapter One

**Just A Little Change**

**Chapter One**

The more she thought about it, the more Belle Beaumont realised that it might have been more sensible if she had changed into her old clothes before racing off to save her father. 

For one thing, the dancing shoes she wore didn’t have a very good grip; they kept slipping out of the stirrups as she and Phillippe galloped into the night. Additionally, the flimsy material of the dress itself had gotten snagged on several branches when she had ridden back to town. Belle had managed to unlace the back of the dress by herself before she got back on her horse, tossing it over her head as she raced back towards the Beast’s castle. It was wholly impractical for what she was hoping to do -- and some small part of her mind even had time to mourn the weeks of work that Madame de Garderobe had spent making the dress, and hope that her father would pick it up where she had unceremoniously dropped it on the ground. 

But the main reason she regretted not changing was that after she had crossed the magical barrier that had trapped the Beast’s castle in an endless winter -- one of the few mysteries she hadn’t yet solved or asked about -- Belle was _freezing_. Even though she was shivering violently, she kept riding Phillippe as fast as he could go. As she rounded the old, familiar corner to the gates of the grounds, she could hear the noise of some sort of battle taking place. 

“At least they’re putting up a fight,” she muttered, even as she was stung with guilt for putting her friends in such danger. “Come on, Phillipe -- to the stables, quickly!” In the dim light her pale chemise and petticoats blended in with the snow almost perfectly, but the noises coming from within the castle assured Belle that all the villagers were too occupied to spare a glance out any of the windows, and she quickly settled Phillippe in. 

Belle jogged back around and up the steps to the front doors, slipping a little on the ice. It was utter chaos inside; Cogsworth and Lumiére, fighting back-to-back with a weapon in each hand; little Frou-Frou, knocking into assailants in all directions and tripping up as many as he could; Chip and the other magically-animated teacups, flinging china saucers at anybody who got too close; Maestro Cadenza, leaping on top of a hapless villager. The man in front of him turned back, his red coat swishing, and Belle scowled when she saw his face. 

Gaston said something to the villager that she couldn’t hear, and continued up the main stairs. By what had to be pure luck, he headed up the corridor that lead to the West Wing. Belle could see the full quiver of arrows at his belt and the large rifle strapped to his back; she also knew that he had a habit of keeping knives in his boots when in battle, although she was too far away to see the hilt. Belle raced after him, fear spurting low in her stomach for the first time since she had left the village. She neatly avoided most of the brawling staff and villagers as she went up the stairs, although she couldn’t have said _how_ , exactly. 

“Belle!” She looked up to see Plumette fluttering about in mid-air, her upper body scratched and her feathers sticky from the battle. “You came back after all! I told Lumiére that you would return to us!”

“Plumette, this is all my fault,” Belle said, darting her head from side to side to take in the battle raging around her. “I showed them the Beast in the mirror, trying to convince them that what my father saw was real, only now they’re out for _blood_ , and I don’t think they’ll stop until the Beast is dead!” She followed Gaston’s path towards the West Wing, Plumette keeping pace with her easily. “I _have_ to save him, Plumette -- this is all my fault.”

“Follow me,” she said, gracefully flying around Belle’s head and going in the opposite direction, towards her rooms. “Lumiére led you to your rooms through the old servant’s passageways; I can take you out to the roofs the same way. The Master is not in his bedchamber just now, which will buy us some time while this . . . Gaston looks for him. Besides,” she continued, fluttering around Belle’s ankles for a moment as the two of them hurried along, “I think you could use some more practical footwear, if you’re going to be on the roofs.”

“Thank you, Plumette,” Belle said, and she broke out into a run to keep up. 

In next to no time, she was in her bedroom again, although the doorframe looked as though something had battered at it until it gave way completely. When she walked in and noticed that, for the first time ever Madame de Garderobe was not in the room, Belle reckoned she had a solid idea about what had happened. Everything that had been inside Madame’s drawers -- petticoats, stays, chemises, skirts, bodices, stockings, and much more besides -- was strewn across the room. To Belle’s relief, her trusty boots were next to each other on the floor, and in a matter of minutes she had swapped the dancing shoes for them. 

“Alright, Belle,” Plumette said urgently. “Prise open that door in the corridor wall, and we’ll be on our way in no time.”

Belle rushed back through her room and across the hallway. She ran her fingers firmly over the wall until she found the hidden doorknob, artfully disguised in a wall sconce. Belle and Pumette were inside the servant’s passage in an instant, and Belle followed the fluttering feather duster as quickly as she could in the dusty, dim passageway. It felt as if she was merely losing herself deeper and deeper inside the castle walls, but she trusted Plumette to take her to the Beast safely.

After what felt like an eternity, but most likely was only a few minutes, Belle was opening another door to the bracing air of the midwinter night. She gasped at the cold, automatically pulling her arms close to her body. 

“This is where we last saw him,” Plumette said, lowering her head as much as she was able. “And this is where I must leave you -- I must go and protect that foolish candelabra of mine, as you must protect the Master.” 

“I --” Belle started. The next moment she realised that even though she had rejected the Beast’s affection earlier that night, Plumette was right -- she _would_ protect him from Gaston with the same ferocity that Plumette would defend her lover. “Thank you.” 

“Au revoir, Belle. We _will_ meet again.” Plumette soared back down to the battle with the next gust of wind, her white feathers and painted body blending in with the snowy backdrop almost immediately.

Belle looked around frantically for any sight of tall horns or a blue coat. Just as she drew breath to call for the Beast, she noticed a flash of red from a gaping hole in the floor beneath her. Stifling her gasp, Belle hurried down a set of stairs, hoping that the fierce wind and Gaston’s egotistical mutterings would muffle the noise of her boots on the stone. She snuck up behind him, grabbing the weapon closest to her -- his full quiver of arrows. He spun around almost before she had them in her grasp, and the look of shock on his face was almost comical. Belle broke the arrows over her knee and threw them further back into the tower before he could snatch them away from her hands. 

“Belle!” He was recovering from his shock now, his face contorting into a grimace which would have struck fear into her heart, if Belle had been anything less than furious.

“Where is he?” Belle demanded, her anger boiling up to the surface again. “Where’s the Beast?”

He ignored her question entirely, reaching for the smaller gun at his hip. If Belle hadn’t been so afraid for the Beast’s safety and whereabouts, she could have punched him. “When we return to the village, you _will_ marry me -- and that Beast’s head will hang on our wall!” he said, lifting it up as if he was about to aim at her.

“Never!” Belle cried out, darting forwards to wrestle the gun away from Gaston. For him to still believe that they would marry, after everything he had done that night, was almost ridiculous. But Belle could see the glint of righteous fury in his eyes, remembered the countless tales of how he had defended the village against the foreign invaders, and she knew that he was deadly serious. He meant to kill the Beast -- _her_ Beast -- and force her to look at his corpse every day. 

The castle rumbled beneath them, and another section of the stonework came loose -- this time, the walkway that Gaston was standing on. He fell straight down to a lower level; neither he nor Belle had the gun, as during the fall it had fallen from both of their hands and landed on a parapet that was still lower -- and out of reach for both of them. 

With a snicker, Gaston turned back towards the wider roof. “I’m coming for you, Beast!” he shouted. Belle ran back into the tower, as the staircase she had come down went down another floor. She and Gaston both ended up on a walkway only a few feet wide, and Belle shivered violently again at the wind biting her extremities. 

Before she could stop him, Gaston had already leapt across to a neighbouring roof, and another, and another. Belle kept running along the walkway, mirroring Gaston’s path parallel to the roofs. Suddenly, the walkway itself began to crumble beneath her feet. Belle made a desperate jump for the safety of the next tower, landing just before she would have fallen to her death. The adrenaline pumping through her veins allowed her to keep running, even as her heart skipped a beat at how close she had come to falling. She _would not_ see the Beast die -- not if she had anything to do with it. 

\---

The more she thought about it, the more Belle Dupont realised that it might have been more sensible to leave her father at home before racing off to save the Beast.

Conscious of her father’s illness as she was, Belle was doing her best to ride Phillippe quickly but safely towards the castle as fast as she could. Maurice was sat behind her, one arm around her waist for balance. Chip was in his other hand, and Belle could feel his rim against her back as Maurice shielded the little cup with his other arm. It would have been more sensible to leave him at home, where he could rest as much as he needed and Belle could ride as fast as she wanted to reach the castle. But Gaston’s scheme and their long separation had been enough for father and daughter to want to stay together, and the three of them had all mounted Phillippe without argument. 

“Belle,” Maurice said as they thundered through the woods, the winter air whipping away at their cloaks and hair, “what exactly are you going to do when you get there?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I can’t just let him die without any warning, Papa -- the villagers are here because of _me_. If I could have made them realise that he’s _not_ a monster, then maybe . . .”

“I don’t think so, Belle,” Maurice said gravely. “People see what they want to see. Gaston sees you as his wife, no matter how many times you turn him down. These people see Gaston as their leader, who’s never been wrong before, and they see _us_ as the eccentric old father-daughter pair who don’t live by their rules. They were always going to side with him.” Belle was almost surprised by the bitterness in his voice; she had never heard her gentle, absent-minded father so angry. Then again, she reasoned, he had almost been thrown into a lunatic asylum by men and women he considered his peers. 

“I’m sorry ‘bout your house, M. Dupont,” Chip piped up in a small voice. “I didn’t mean to chop up the wood so bad.”

“You got us out, Chip,” Belle said, “and for that I can’t thank you enough.”

“And one way or another, I don’t think we’ll be staying there anymore after tonight,” Maurice said. 

Before Belle could ask him what he meant by that, a large group of men carrying torches came running down the road, from the direction of the castle. Some were limping, others shrieking in terror. Many had rather nasty-looking burns on their arms and hands, and everybody looked to be in disarray of some kind. But more than that -- overwhelmingly there was a sense of defeat about the villagers. 

“Belle?” one of them said. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to save the people you just marched off to fight!” Belle cried out. 

“Belle, you can’t go out there -- that place is _alive_ , somehow!”

Without waiting to hear any more, Belle spurred Phillippe on from the slow walking pace he had entered when he saw the men, and kept on traversing the forest. It was by far the simplest trip she’d had to make in those woods -- she had been directed by the mirror to find her father, and had similarly used it to find her way home -- but it was easy to follow the trail of debris left behind by the villagers back to the castle. As she emerged from the woods to the bridge, rain began to fall with a rumble of thunder. Phillippe hurried across the bridge, his shoes clinking against the stonework. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Belle caught a flash of movement above her. The next moment, she was frozen in horror. The Beast -- her kind, gentle, Beast -- was hanging limply over a battlement. A man in a red shirt -- _Gaston_ , her brain supplied helpfully -- broke off a piece of stonework and raised it above his head, clearly intending to strike the Beast. 

“No!” she screamed. “Gaston, don’t!”

Gaston paused for a moment, but continued in his preparations to kill the Beast. But that moment was all the Beast had needed -- in a flurry of movement too fast for Belle to interpret, he was back on his feet and fending off Gaston’s blow as if it was nothing more than a friendly punch on the arm.

“Go, Belle,” Maurice said, sliding off Phillippe. “Go and save him.”

Without hesitation, she giddied Phillippe up, and he burst through the castle doors. The servants all shrieked at the sight of her -- Belle was sure she saw Cogsworth, now in a blue hat, raising a musket on instinct -- but she slid off the horse and started running, as fast as she could to the West Wing. Behind her, she could hear Chip’s excited voice as he recounted their misadventure to the staff assembled in the hall. 

She ran up the grand stairs, and flew around the corner to an upper hallway. She was beginning to pant for breath, but Belle knew she didn’t have a moment to lose. She kept running -- past the flying buttresses, past the examples of the late neo-classical Baroque period, past the hallway which was usually filled with suits of armour. It was empty now, and Belle realised that they must have fought to preserve the castle from the violent men attacking it. Finally, she found the stairs to the West Wing, and hurried up them. A stitch was forming rather painfully in her side, but she kept sprinting through the pain. 

Belle shoved the doors open without the hesitation of a few months ago, and raced through the newly-cleaned rooms to the balcony, narrowly avoiding the rose and bell jar on the table in front of the balcony doors. The rain came pummelling down on her head, soaking her instantly, but Belle didn’t care. 

“Beast!” she yelled, looking frantically from side to side. “Beast!” She found him a moment later, on a parapet several feet below her.

“Belle,” the Beast breathed, spinning around in the rain so that they faced each other.

Belle reached out her hand, half-hanging over the balcony. The Beast moved over the rooftops with careful ease, reaching out his own massive paw and taking her hand in his. Belle squeezed his hand, and slowly, as if she would start away, the Beast raised his hand to her cheek -- a mirror of how she had left him, she realised with a sudden pang. 

“You came back,” he said, with an incredulity that would have broken her heart, had she not been so happy to see him alive. Belle leaned into his caress, really _feeling_ the rough pads of his paws, and the slight but definite weight of his claws in her hair. She wrapped both her hands around his arm, allowing herself to enjoy the calm moment. 

Suddenly, the Beast jerked backwards with a roar of pain. Belle grabbed at his shirt, using all the strength she had to stop him falling off the edge of the balcony and into the ravine below. She could see, out of the corner of her eye, a flash of red shirt and a glint of metal. Gaston was already out of her reach by the time she realised he was falling, and Belle instead dragged the Beast over the railing as best she could. 

He collapsed on the ground next to her, his breathing coming in pained gasps. Had she taken a moment to look at them, Belle would have noticed that her hand was covered with the Beast’s blood, where she had been gripping his shirt as she pulled him over the railing. 

\---

“Belle!” the Beast cried out from his precarious position on the turret, a smile the likes of which she’d never seen before transforming his face. “You came back!”

Belle Beaumont could have cried from the sheer relief that he was alive. “I tried to stop them!” she shouted, desperate for him to understand. Although she was too far away to see his face clearly, Belle could tell that a certain tension had eased from his shoulders. 

“Stay there -- I’m coming!” he said. He made an impossibly huge leap to a tower closer to where she was standing, and Belle’s heart was in her throat once again. He jumped again -- to another walkway, parallel to the one she was on -- and almost missed, hanging over the edge of the abyss for what, to Belle, felt like an eternity before pulling himself up. 

Before she could even take a sigh of relief, Gaston rushed out from behind the Beast and hit him before he could even get to his feet. Belle rushed out of the small tower she was in, running along the walkway as it continued on. Even in her sturdy boots, she found herself perilously close to slipping off the edge, and found herself cursing whoever had designed the castle in such a dangerous manner. The walkway led to a large balcony, and Belle realised in the back of her mind that she was in the West Wing for the second time that night. Her attention, however, was caught entirely by the two men on the bridge opposite her -- for that was what they were, to her.

Gaston kicked the Beast onto his back, and in the back of her mind Belle wondered what had happened for the Beast to be so weakened. The forefront of her mind was taken up with the swagger that Gaston had just adopted; the same manner he moved in whenever he approached an enemy, or an animal ready for the slaughter. In his hands dangled a menacingly sharp piece of stonework, and Belle knew with a sudden horror what he was about to do. 

“Gaston!” she shrieked. “No!”

But he ignored her entirely. Just as he was about to strike, the Beast surged upwards and held Gaston’s arm still, twisting the stone out of his reach and grasping for his collar. She saw the weapon clatter harmlessly over the edge of the bridge, and then she saw the Beast, a hand firmly around Gaston’s throat, dangling him over the edge of the abyss. Belle gasped; a tiny thing, which neither man seemed to hear. Belle could hear Gaston choking something out, but the exact words were carried away by the wind. She didn’t need them to guess that he was pleading for his life. 

For one awful, endless moment, she thought that the Beast was going to drop him. 

Slowly, the Beast pulled Gaston back to the safety of solid ground. Belle could have fallen over, her relief was so great. She knew that Gaston deserved as much for what he had done, and if he had been tried before a judge and sentenced as such, she would have seen it as justice. But to for the Beast to do such a thing would have been different, somehow, in a way which would have coloured her opinion of him forever. She could hear him growl something to Gaston, but his voice was too low for her to know what he was saying. Judging by his frantic scramble to get away, once the Beast released him, it was threatening enough for Gaston to leave without a fight. The Beast himself back away on all fours, towards the very edge of the bridge. 

“Don’t!” Belle cried out, realising what he meant to do instantly. “It’s too far!”

But the Beast had already leapt for the balcony. Once again, he almost missed, pulling himself up by his powerful arms. Arms which had embraced her so gently as they danced earlier that night -- had it only been a few hours ago? He stood up to his full height, panting heavily with the exertion of the last several minutes, looking straight at her. His eyes were so blue, Belle noticed as she tried to hold back tears, that it was almost as if the sky had lost a little of itself in them. He broke into a sheepish little half-smile, and he had never looked more human, or more handsome. 

And then, without any warning, he collapsed with a roar of agony as a shot from Gaston’s forgotten gun rang out.

\---

“You . . . came back,” the Beast choked out. His eyes were fixed on hers, even as he struggled to breathe. Belle Dupont stroked his face tenderly, running her fingers soothingly from his eyebrow to his cheekbone.

“Of course I came back,” Belle said with a reassuring manner she didn’t for a moment possess. “I couldn’t just let them -- oh, this is all my fault!” She bunched her fingers up in the fabric of his shirt, consumed worse than ever before by the guilt of leading Gaston straight to him. “If only I’d gotten here sooner,” she said, bending down to embrace him as best she could in their current positions.

“Maybe -- it’s better this way,” he said. 

“Don’t talk like that,” Belle said, shaking her head even though she knew it was useless. “You’ll be alright -- we’re together now, everything’s going to be fine.” Lies, every word of them, but Belle couldn’t have told him the truth -- that he was going to die outside his own bedroom, in a body which he clearly despised -- even if she had been able to confront it herself. 

With a superhuman effort, the Beast lifted his hand to her cheek, running his fingers through her hair. “Then at least . . . at least I got to see you . . . one last time,” he managed to say, before falling back to the cold stone, unconscious. 

Belle let his hand fall, covering her mouth as if she could physically stop her sobs coming out. “No,” she gasped, the tears on her face mingly with the raindrops. “No!” She laid her head on his chest, weeping bitterly. “Please, please -- _please_ don’t leave me.” Belle turned her face, so that she could catch the last, faint beatings of his heart. 

“I love you,” she whispered, so quietly she was barely sure she had said it. 

Behind her, the last petal fell. 

\---

Belle Beaumont rushed to the Beast’s side as he half-staggered, half-fell back into the West Wing. Behind her, she could hear the cracking of stone, and what sounded like a human scream of terror. She couldn’t care less about Gaston, however -- not when her Beast was lying on his back, fighting to keep breathing after he had been shot twice in the back. 

“You came back,” he murmured, as if he still couldn’t quite believe it. 

“Of course I came back,” Belle choked. “I’ll never leave you again!” Her hand snuck to the back of his neck, supporting him as he gazed up at her -- a mirror of when he had dipped her during their dance, she realised with a pang. 

“I’m afraid it’s my turn to leave now,” he said. His tone was almost apologetic, and his eyes sought her gaze as if he was afraid, suddenly. 

“We’re together now,” Belle whispered; she had begun crying, and her throat was so tight she found it almost impossible to speak. “It’s going to be fine,” she lied. Enchanted castle it might be -- even Belle Beaumont knew that nobody could survive two bullet wounds without a minor miracle. 

“At least I got to see you . . . one last time,” the Beast sighed. His whole body slacked in her grasp, but his eyes -- those blue eyes she had come to know so well -- remained open, unseeing. 

“No,” Belle choked out, hot tears pouring down her face. “Please, _no_. Come back!” She shook his chest, but it was pointless. He was gone. 

Behind her, the last petal fell. 

Belle gently kissed his forehead, still crying inconsolably. “I love you,” she whispered, so quietly that only the Beast would have been able to hear her.

\---

Agathe had seen the entire rooftop battle from her hiding spot -- _both_ battles. She had heard the two Beast’s final words, and had observed the two Belle’s heartfelt sobs. Looking for the moment at Belle Beaumont, sobbing wildly over the broken body of her Beast, Agathe felt ashamed. She had never intended for either Beast to come to any bodily harm -- and what was worse, the Beaumont girl had missed the curse’s deadline by only a few seconds. Agathe took a moment to look at the servants in the courtyard; to her horror, they were already inanimate. 

Agatha clenched her jaw. Even she could not turn back time. But the Dupont girl had declared her love before the deadline, and the Beaumont girl merely seconds later. It would have to do. 

She flung back her hood, and allowed the magic of both women’s love to flow through her veins. She took a deep breath, and stretched her hand out to the bell jar which still contained the rose. With a flick of her fingers it disintegrated, and she guided the petals over to the Beast’s body. Looking at Belle Dupont’s Beast, she sent tiny sparks shooting down from the sky, enveloping him in cool-toned light. 

Agathe frowned when she turned back to Belle Beaumont’s Beast. He was in mid-air, the petals swirling around him, but he had not yet changed form at all. She concentrated even more on the love of both Belle Dupont and Belle Beaumont, filling herself with its energy. 

Suddenly, her magic surged within her, and Agathe’s eyes flew open. Against her intentions, the same light which was carrying each Beast had shot to his Belle, although both girls were too engrossed in what was happening to notice. Agathe tried to draw the magic away -- it was intended for transformations, nothing more or less -- but that only increased its hold on each Belle. Unable to stop, Agathe watched in helpless horror as Belle Dupont and Belle Beaumont were enveloped in light. 

At the very instant the two princes transformed, the light pulsed around the two women, and both flinched away on instinct. The magic from both transformations faded, and even though both women looked the same, Agathe’s heart sank. If what she thought just happened _had_ just happened, things could not possibly be worse for Belle Dupont, Belle Beaumont, and the men for whom they had just confessed their love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This is my first time writing for 2017!verse -- well, I say writing. Almost all the dialogue in this chapter was taken from Beauty and the Beast, 1991 and 2017, which I do not own. I’ll get more creative, I swear!
> 
> For reference: Belle Dupont is 1991!Belle. Belle Beaumont is 2017!Belle. Further clarifications will be made as we meet more characters with the same name. Also, full disclosure -- in the name of everybody’s sanity, the princes will have different names, neither of which will be Adam. 
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment!
> 
> TheTeaIsAddictive


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Belle Dupont winced in pain as the light around the Beast pulsed brightly for a moment. It faded away just as quickly, although bright spots still danced across her vision. As her eyes readjusted, Belle saw that her Beast was, in fact, now a man -- his transformation had happened during the flash of light. He landed gently on his feet, facing away from her, and Belle realised that whatever magic had saved his life had also removed all the bloodstains from his shirt. A few rose petals fell to the ground around him; she hadn’t noticed the petals before, but Belle supposed that she _had_ been slightly preoccupied. 

The man lifted his hands so that they were in front of his face, giving a little start at their appearance. He turned them over, and Belle could see that he was also looking at the rest of his newly-human body. Belle shivered in the cool air -- _had_ it been this cold a moment ago, or was her adrenaline finally wearing off? -- and the man turned around. 

He was about a head taller than her, with dishevelled blonde hair that fell neatly to his shoulders. His shirt hung loosely on his frame, from where it had been Beast-sized until recently, and a light blonde stubble barely covered his face -- as if he had shaved that morning, and it had grown back over the course of the day. But his eyes were the same bright blue they had always been, and Belle Dupont found herself edging closer to him. The man stood stock-still, as if he was afraid she would run away if he tried to move. After everything they had been through, Belle was half-surprised at his restraint; then again, it was equally understandable. As she entered his personal space, he leaned into her slightly, but made no other move to close the distance between them. 

Tentatively, Belle reached for a lock of hair by his face, running her fingers through it gently. Her eyes flicked over to his, and the half-expressed fear that she wouldn’t accept him was so familiar that Belle knew who he was. 

“It _is_ you,” she smiled, ghosting out a laugh as she did so. 

The man visibly relaxed, grinning with her. Belle allowed her hand to rest fully on his cheek, and she felt his hand settle on her shoulder like it was meant to be there. It was warm, and she could almost _feel_ the rough callouses of his fingers against the skin on her shoulder, even through the thin blouse she had on under her dress. She stepped forwards again, and with almost as much bravery as it had taken for her to enter the castle all those months ago, she leaned forwards and kissed him. 

He let out a little gasp as she buried her hands in his hair, and she could feel his other hand gently cupping the back of her head. Their lips moved together in a way that soon left Belle breathless, and she let out a little gasp of her own as his hand trailed from her shoulder to her waist. He opened his mouth to her, and Belle was surprised at how good he was at this -- from what she had learned about his past, she had assumed that he had been a young child when he was cursed, and therefore as inexperienced as she was at kissing. Nevertheless, the romantic in Belle was still overjoyed that her first kiss was with the man she loved beyond anything else. 

They broke apart, Belle’s hands still chastely on his face, and the man grinned boyishly. He snuck in a few more pecks to her lips, her cheeks, and even her nose, which made Belle laugh again. 

“You’re not dead,” she said eventually. 

“No,” he agreed, in a pleasant voice -- higher than the Beast’s, but lower than she was expecting. He ran his fingers through her hair again, and Belle couldn’t help but remember when he had done so as he gave her the magic mirror. “I’m not going anywhere, it seems.”

Belle was about to ask him how he had heard her desperate pleas for him to stay -- he had been unconscious by then, by all appearances -- when another shiver caused her to look at what she was wearing -- _really_ look. 

“Oh!” she gasped, suddenly stepping away and covering her shoulders as best she could. “My -- my clothes, I don’t -- something must have . . .” 

To her severe embarrassment, her blue dress and blouse had vanished, and she was now in a chemise, corset, and several petticoats. If there had been a crinoline as well, Belle might have thought they were the underpinnings to the yellow dress she had worn just hours ago. She noticed as well that part of her hair had arranged itself as well, back into the style she wore during the ball; admittedly, her kiss with the prince had caused it to fall apart a fair amount. Belle had no idea why the transformation had affected her outfit, but she was glad that at least she wasn’t in her _own_ underpinnings, which would be significantly worse. 

“It’s alright, no need to explain,” the prince said. “I rather suspect everybody downstairs will be a little dishevelled as well.” He walked over to a bench on the balcony, and lifted up some kind of cloak which Belle had never seen before. “Here, put this on.” He settled it around her exposed shoulders -- _That’s why you could feel his fingers so clearly,_ Belle realised with a flush -- and let Belle drape it around herself as she wished. 

“Thank you,” she said once she was satisfied. “Wait -- downstairs? Then the spell --”

“Yes,” he grinned again. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him smile so much, not in all the time she had spent at the castle. “You broke it, Belle.”

“Then . . . will you tell me your name?” It was the one question she had never received a straight answer to, since that very first night. 

“Of course, Belle,” he said, taking her hand loosely. “It’s Vincent.”

“Vincent,” she said carefully. It fitted the man in front of her to a tee. “Happy to meet you, Vincent.”

The man -- _Vincent_ \-- smiled again, and Belle squeezed his hand. They walked carefully through the West Wing, which had been completely transformed since Belle had run through it minutes before. It was so different from what it had been, now all wide open spaces and gilded arches, that she almost felt like she was in a completely different castle. Vincent, however, seemed nonplussed by the appearance of the wing, and Belle began to realise just how much the Enchantress had affected the lives of him and his servants over the last ten years. 

“Everything looks so different,” Belle said quietly as they walked down. 

“I suppose it does, to you,” Vincent agreed. “But for me, it looks exactly the same as it did that night.” 

Even in the midst of his happiness, his brow furrowed and his jaw clenched slightly. Belle didn’t have to ask what he was referring to. She pulled him back towards her; as Belle was still on the grand stairs and Vincent was on the floor, this meant she was slightly taller than him. She pulled him into another quick kiss, and when they broke apart all traces of his previous tension had vanished. 

“Today should be a day for smiles and laughter,” Belle said. “Everything else can come later.”

“Agreed,” Vincent said. Hand in hand, they walked out to the courtyard. 

\---

As the light around the Beast’s body faded, Belle Beaumont rubbed at her eyes to try and get them back to normal. Although his face was out of her sight, she could tell that he had transformed back into a man during that blast of magical energy. He landed softly on the ground, as if he was a child somebody had lifted up and settled on his bed, half-lying on the cold stone. His shirt was whole again; the magic that had brought him back to life also seemed to have mended the holes Gaston’s bullets had torn in his clothes, and there was no trace of blood on them. He was also half-covered in a dark red cloak -- a strange thing to appear during the transformation, Belle thought -- which slipped away as he slowly rose to his feet. 

He lifted a hand to his head, as if he meant to rub it, only to freeze when he saw that they were as pale and hairless as any other man’s. A gust of wind blew some hair into her face, and Belle impatiently tucked it behind her ear, wondering how it had escaped from the numerous pins Madame de Garderobe had imprisoned it with already. She saw the man cast a quick look over the rest of his body, and run his hands over his arms in disbelief, before turning around to face her. 

He was taller than her by a good six or seven inches, with a mass of auburn hair that was almost the same length as Belle’s. He seemed so much younger as a man than he had ever appeared as a Beast, with his face the very picture of earnestness and his shirt half-falling off him, it was so large. But his eyes -- his eyes were the same bright blue she knew and loved, and Belle Beaumont walked forwards assured that she knew him. 

“Belle,” he said, running his hands over his chest -- as if he could scarcely believe he was truly human -- before reaching out for her hand, “it’s me.”

With her other hand, Belle Beaumont ran her fingers through a strand of hair by his face, tracing his jawline down as she did so. The man visibly relaxed into the caress, and Belle smiled. 

“Who else would it be?” she asked. Her hand moved to the back of his neck, and she applied the slightest pressure to it as she rose up on her tiptoes. Intuiting what she wanted, the man bent his head so that he could kiss her. 

The moment their lips met, a sudden gust of wind blew around them, sending Belle’s skirts and cape fluttering as their hair whipped around their faces. Belle kept her hand on the man’s neck, grazing her other hand up his arm to his broad shoulders. The man’s arms wound around her waist, nearly enveloping her. In the back of her mind, Belle was surprised that the kiss felt so shy -- from the way the Beast had spoken, she had assumed he was in his twenties like her, or possibly a few years older -- old enough to have had at least a few experimental kisses. But the romantic in Belle couldn’t help but feel that this kiss -- her first with the man she loved -- was special, no matter what she had expected. 

They broke apart slowly, both savouring the moment. Belle realised quietly that the sun had come out, although it was still as cold as winter. In her peripheral vision, she could see that the castle had changed, in some way -- it seemed whiter and more compact -- but she couldn’t bring herself to care at the moment. The man leaned down again, pressing a chaste kiss against her lips, as if he couldn’t quite help himself now that she was here. 

“You were dead,” Belle whispered, feeling a few tears leak out. “I -- I _saw_ you --”

The man pressed her close to his chest, kissing the top of her head as he did so. Belle could feel his heart beating against her ear, although she wasn’t sure if that was the reason he had embraced her or not. Aside from the kiss, and the dance they had shared, it was the closest they had ever physically been to one another. 

“I’m here,” he murmured, and Belle could feel the rumble of his voice against her cheek. “I’m alive, and I’m here.”

“What’s your name?” she asked. “I know that the curse is over now, and I could probably remember it if I tried, but I want to hear it from you.” She had never asked him while she stayed at the castle, and besides the afternoon Mrs. Potts had told her about his family’s life, she had never brought it up with the servants either. 

“Alexander,” he said. “My name is Alexander.”

It suited him. Belle took his hand and squeezed it gently. “Alexander,” she repeated.

Just then, Lumière came hopping out the balcony doors. The instant he stepped into the sunlight, he changed from a small candelabra to a tall, skinny man -- almost as tall as Alexander. 

“Lumière,” he breathed, pulling the man into a hug. Cogsworth followed him out, becoming a rather short and stout man -- and several years younger than Belle had imagined him to be. “Cogsworth,” he smiled, wrapping his other arm around him. Both men returned his embrace, clearly overjoyed to be human again. A cheerful-looking old woman came bustling out as well, and she flung her arms around the three men. “Mrs. Potts!” Alexander laughed. “Look at us!” With a feat of strength Belle hadn’t expected, he managed to lift all three of them off the ground. Belle laughed while Cogsworth made a good-natured attempt at fussing over the propriety required of the situation, and Lumière gave the former clock a hug before he had fully worked up enough outrage.

“And now, _mes amis_ , I must go and find Babette!” he laughed. “Flames and feathers no longer -- not a moment to waste!” He scurried back into the castle, calling out, “Babette! Babette!” as he ran.

“Typical,” Cogsworth coughed, although even he had a smile on his face. “Less than a minute of being human, and what does he do? Go after that maid -- I ask you!”

Belle narrowed her eyes, slightly confused -- she was sure that Lumière’s lover had been called _Plumette_ , not Babette -- but Mrs. Potts quickly interrupted her thought process.

“Oh, gracious!” Mrs. Potts said. “Master -- oh, Belle!” She broke away from Alexander, pulling Belle into a tight hug. “I knew you’d come back,” she said, and Belle returned the embrace. 

“Mama! Mama!” 

Belle and Mrs. Potts both turned around at the same time, to see Chip and Frou-Frou riding into the balcony. The instant the two of them entered the natural light, they transformed into a little boy -- maybe five or six years old -- and a large cross-bred dog who looked about the same age. 

“Chip!” Mrs. Potts cried out, lifting him up and covering his face with kisses. “Oh, and Sultan!”

Belle frowned a little, and she was about to ask Mrs. Potts what she meant when Alexander swept in and lifted her clean off her feet, swinging her around like she weighed nothing. She shrieked with surprise, playfully batting him off as soon as she was on solid ground again. By the time the little group had settled down enough to meet up with the rest of the castle servants, Belle had forgotten about the dog’s name in light of the much more momentous reunions happening around her.

\---

Belle Dupont and Vincent walked hand in hand into the courtyard, which was filled with people. Belle was slightly surprised to see that the gardens were in full bloom, as it was still January, but she reasoned that the Enchantress must have felt like revitalising the whole estate after the transformation, not just the palace itself. The people filling the courtyard were presumably all servants, although Belle hadn’t expected _quite_ so many in a castle this large. 

“Master!” A man with a brown moustache and powdered white wig, dressed in a gold uniform, approached Vincent and half-bowed. 

“Lumière, old friend,” Vincent said, rushing forwards to hug him instead. 

While the two men embraced, a woman who was standing next to him walked over to Belle. “You saved our lives, mademoiselle,” she said in her distinctive accent, grinning happily. 

“Babette?” she guessed. 

“Belle! However did you guess that was my name?” she laughed. “It doesn’t matter. But please, call me Plumette; it’s what everybody here knows me as, and I’ve grown to like it over the years.” 

Belle frowned -- there had been no guesswork on her part, since Babette (well, _Plumette_ ) and Lumière were infamously inseparable around the castle -- but Plumette was already pulling Belle in for a quick hug. It was quickly interrupted by a tugging on Belle’s borrowed cloak. 

“Belle! Look! I’m a real boy!” A little boy who couldn’t have been more than eight was pulling on Belle’s hand, practically dancing with excitement. 

“Chip!” Belle grinned, lifting him up to give him a hug, as well. “Oh, and . . . Mrs. Potts?”

“I knew you could do it, dearie,” said a woman with ash-blonde hair, whose anxious hovering over Chip had given away her relationship to him at once. “Even though we couldn’t tell you everything about the spell, it turned out alright in the end.”

“Of course it did,” Belle smiled. An older man with a red cap walked up beside Mrs. Potts, and Chip hopped down from Belle’s arms to run and hug him. “And who are you, monsieur?” she asked. 

“Oh, you tease me,” he laughed. “But it turns out I’m not just Monsieur Jean, but Mr. Potts!”

“Oh!” Belle said, hiding her utter confusion under a smile and another hug. “But I thought that your husband had . . .” 

Belle had asked Mrs. Potts about her husband not long after she came to the castle. She had been told that he, along with Chip’s mother, had died in a carriage accident a few months after Chip was born. Mrs. Potts had brought Chip up as her own, as his father had never shown any interest in caring for the boy, and Chip himself did not even know that Mrs. Potts was his grandmother. The man in front of her, however, was very clearly alive and kicking.

“The spell, dearie!” Mrs. Potts said, laughing. “It caused everybody outside the castle to forget about us, and since Mr. Potts was in Villeneuve that night, he and I have been separated since the moment the curse was cast.” Mr. Potts wound an arm around his wife’s waist, and kissed her cheek. 

“And now we can be a proper family again -- you, me, and little Chip!” he said, laughing jovially. “Oh, and look -- I do believe Clothilde’s found her brother again.”

Belle and Mrs. Potts both turned, to see a tall, skinny woman with dark hair tearfully embracing an old man in the same gold uniform as the rest of the staff. The man looked distinctly uncomfortable, patting her back as stiffly as if he was an automaton. 

“Poor Cogsworth,” Mrs. Potts laughed. 

“Cogsworth?!” Belle exclaimed, whipping her head around to face her. “I had no idea he was that age -- he always seemed so . . . vibrant.”

“Well, Clothilde is enough to put a damper on anyone’s spirits,” Mr. Potts said. “But I don’t need to tell you that, eh, Belle?”

“I’m . . . sorry?” she asked. “Should I know her?”

Mr. Potts only laughed. “Good attitude! Don’t let her antics bother you! Still, I hate to think how much work was wasted when she demolished that washing contraption of yours. But I suppose bygones should be bygones -- after all, now that the spell is broken I suspect a lot more villagers will have connections to you and this castle than they might otherwise like.”

Belle’s mouth gaped. “Excuse me,” she murmured, reeling from the onslaught of information. “I must . . . go and find my father. And Vincent.” She walked away from the Potts’, nodding politely at Plumette as she passed. Within a matter of minutes, she had found Vincent again, and she almost shyly intertwined her hand with his. He looked down at her, and smiled bright like the sun. 

Belle stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. She didn’t quite understand what was happening -- why people she had been told were dead were suddenly alive, or why she was expected to know and even despise a woman she’d never seen before in her life. It was a ridiculous feeling -- Belle wouldn’t have given it any credence if it hadn’t felt awfully similar to her compulsion to enter the West Wing -- but she couldn’t help but wonder if there was a reason beyond a broken curse for all of these people to exist so differently to how she had imagined them.

\---

Unnoticed in the hustle and bustle of Vincent’s courtyard, Agathe cursed silently. She had hoped to switch Dupont and Beaumont around before their grip on the other’s bodies was too strong. Unfortunately, now that both girls had exchanged a kiss with their princes, it would be a little more complicated to switch them back.

With a subtle shift of light, Agathe found herself back in her home in Vincent and Belle Beaumont’s world. She began leafing through her books, while her owl blinked curiously at her. 

“Things are bad, Nyctea,” she said. “Both pairs have kissed -- and even if they don’t _know_ it’s not the person they loved that they kissed, it still affects what magic I can do with them.”

She ran her hands through her hair, rubbing gently at her temples. Nyctea hooted in sympathy, and Agathe gently stroked her feathers. 

“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted quietly. “All I _can_ do, for now, is watch and wait. Hopefully things will ease off a little soon.”

But even to her own ears, Agathe didn’t sound convincing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just _had_ to squeeze in one final update before the semester started. This will be shorter than my two retellings were, but I’m prioritising my university work more than ever this year, so don’t get too anxious if updates aren’t very often!
> 
> In keeping with our running tally, in 1991 we have: the prince, Alexander; the footstool dog, Sultan; and Mrs. Potts, Chip’s grandmother. In 2017 we have: the prince, Vincent; Mr and Mrs. Potts, Chip’s parents; and Cogsworth’s sister.
> 
> A couple of notes on names: for everybody’s sanity, neither prince has been named Adam. Vincent was an old-school name for the Beast, from well before I even started liking the film -- it probably originated from the 80’s TV series? I think? Alexander, as far as I’m aware, came from an RP on BIttersweet and Strange, ‘Heroes of the Light’, which is an excellent read if you’re up for it -- I know I enjoyed reading it. I also just really like Alexander as a name, so there’s that, too. 
> 
> The Babette/Plumette thing: I like to imagine that in both versions, her real name is Babette and Plumette is a nickname Lumière gave her, since it literally means ‘feather’. In 2017!verse, she just let the whole castle call her that, I guess. 
> 
> Nyctea is part of the Latin name for a snowy owl; I know that’s not what the owl in the film is, but it’s just a pretty name.
> 
> Also; I just cannot picture Cogsworth with a wife like Clothilde, so she became his sister instead -- sorry if anyone was especially attached to that pairing!
> 
> I’m trying to split up time between Beaumont and Dupont equally, but Dupont just had more to experience this chapter; it’ll even out soon enough. And not _every_ chapter will end with a segment from Agathe!
> 
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed this!
> 
> TheTeaIsAddictive


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Maurices are met, the princes admit to anxiety, and the Belles get a clue.

**Chapter Three**

The curse had only been lifted for a few hours, but Belle Dupont already had a sneaking suspicion that something else was terribly wrong. 

She didn’t recognise any of the men and women who were supposed to be from her village -- and they kept calling it ‘Villeneuve’, not ‘Molyneaux’. The fishmonger, greengrocer and barber looked nothing like the men she remembered, nor did they act like them; the bookseller, M. Morrell, was nowhere to be seen; and the elderly Père Robert, whose son had been doing most of the preaching for almost five years now, was suddenly young again, with no wife or children to speak of at all. The strangest thing was that they all recognised _her_ , and talked about exploits of hers which certainly _sounded_ like things that Belle would do -- only she hadn’t.

The castle staff were just as perplexing. Madame de la Grande Bouche seemed now to be married to a composer, who was also on the staff -- a harpsichord named Cadenza, who Belle had never seen during the entire period she had lived at the castle. They spoke about things she had done with the Beast -- with Vincent, she supposed -- such as their dance, the snowball fight, and reading in the library; but the staff themselves were so different to how they _had_ been that Belle found herself thoroughly confused. Mrs. Potts was so much younger than she had expected, Cogsworth so much older, and Mme. de la Grande Bouche -- who seemed to go by Mme. de Garderobe -- was no longer the couthy, exuberant figure Belle had known but a larger-than-life, albeit mildly melancholic, opera singer. 

Vincent himself seemed similar enough to the Beast. Belle hadn’t been able to talk to him for more than a few minutes at a time since they had entered the courtyard, and had not been alone with him at all since then, either. But given how happy everybody was, Belle couldn’t find it in her heart to begrudge him for it -- and it did something peculiar and warming to her heart to see him smile so widely. _Love, you fool,_ she thought. Seeing him so happy, Belle resolved to wait before she told him of her suspicions -- or, indeed, anybody. It was the happiest day of his life, and she didn’t want to make anybody stressed or worried until she was absolutely certain that something else was wrong.

As the villagers who did not have friends or family in the castle began to walk back to Villeneuve, Madame de Garderobe beckoned Belle over and embraced her in a quick hug. 

“I take it you would perhaps like to have your clothes back, Bella?” 

“If that’s not too much trouble,” Belle smiled. They walked back to her room, although Madame’s large, ornate gown caused her some trouble trying to enter the doorway. Eventually Belle darted into the room and pulled Madame in bodily, and the two women couldn’t help but laugh at the situation.

“It seems we all transformed into what we were wearing all those years ago,” Madame said. “And Bella, this is a beautiful dress, but _perbacco_ \-- it is impossible to sit down in it, and I cannot wait to get it off!”

“Let me help you,” Belle said. She carefully unlaced the bodice and skirt, helping Madame off with the panniers and sheer cascade of petticoats. 

“Much better -- _grazie_ ,” she sighed once she was in a lighter, but still brightly coloured, day gown. “Bella, I believe your blue dress is around here somewhere.”

“Found it,” Belle smiled. She quickly dressed herself, feeling more at home than she had in hours. It was comforting, to have the same blue cotton under her fingers and white blouse under the bodice. She caught sight of herself in the mirror on her dresser, and paused for a moment. It was her body, the same as it always had been -- light freckles, dark eyes and hair, and long limbs -- but it looked different, somehow. Her face looked a few years older, her height no longer that of a growing adolescent, but a confident woman. _After the night you just had?_ she thought. _No wonder you look older._

“Well,” Belle said, “I’m ready. Let’s go down -- I can’t wait to see my father again.”

“Bella -- he is not here yet,” Madame said with a frown. “You arrived by yourself, as far as we could tell, and he has not yet joined us at the castle.”

“Oh,” Belle said. She felt as if a large weight had settled in her stomach, at the prospect of her father being affected by this strange . . . thing as well. “Well, I suppose he’ll come by soon. But we could still go down -- I don’t know about you, but I’m famished after all that!”

Madame laughed, and the two of them walked to the dining room where a quick cold lunch had been set up by Cuisinier and his staff. The food was enough to feed an army -- which, Belle supposed, it needed to be, given how many people were in the castle at present. Suddenly hungry, Belle filled a small plate, eating quickly but heartily.

“Belle,” Vincent called out. He had changed as well, into a blue shirt and navy trousers which fit him much better than what he was wearing before. He beckoned her over with one hand, a plate similarly filled in the other. 

“Hello,” she smiled, leaning up for a quick kiss. “This is all rather exciting, isn’t it?”

He pressed his lips to hers, pulling away with a grin. “I have to agree,” he said. “Seeing everybody reunite after so long apart, and being able to actually _see_ everybody again, as well -- it’s more than I could have ever hoped for.” Vincent sighed, his eyes somewhere far away, as if he was remembering the events of that fateful night the spell was cast. “Although,” he added meditatively, “one reunion I am more than slightly worried about is the one with your father.”

“Papa was perfectly willing to help me come back,” Belle said. “He wanted me to help you -- he knows how much you mean to me. He probably knew that I loved you before even I did.”

Vincent smiled, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “True. But I _did_ lock him up in a tower, when we first met. Somehow I doubt his opinion of me will be favourable.”

“It _will,_ ” Belle said forcefully. “I’m his only daughter, and I like you just fine -- he’ll come around soon enough.”

“Only ‘just fine’?” Vincent asked, a teasing smile on his lips. “I could have sworn a moment ago that you said you loved me.”

Belle laughed and elbowed him, rather than continue the joke. Vincent laughed, too, before taking his arm back to continue eating. They lunched together with the rest of the castle, enjoying the company and rejoicing in the end of the curse. It was the smallest of things -- utterly ridiculous -- but Belle couldn’t help the feeling the Vincent was acting slightly differently, now that he was human. 

After lunch, the man who used to be the coatrack -- he had played the violin during their dance, Belle remembered -- came up and tapped her on the shoulder. 

“You father has arrived,” he said in a low tone.

Belle set her plate down, rushing out to the hall. A tall man with greying hair was standing in the centre, gazing in wonder at the differences the transformation had wrought. At her entrance, he turned around. Belle rushed over to hug him, and Maurice staggered back for half a step before returning the hug -- almost as if he was unused to the force of her embrace.

“Belle,” he smiled. 

“Papa,” she replied, happy that he was safe again. “Oh, Papa, are you alright?”

“Of course, Belle,” he said. “It was a little awkward, hanging around the village square until I had a horse again, but the driver for the Maison and I got a little better acquainted over those few hours.”

“I --” Belle paused for a moment, unsure how to proceed. “I’m glad you’re alright. But you’re still ill -- you should be resting.”

“Not that ill,” he said, reaching up to pinch her chin affectionately. “But is this what I have to look forwards to -- the moment I admit I was a little overprotective of you, the tables turn for the next twenty-odd years?”

Belle laughed, although the uneasy feeling in her stomach only grew. “Papa, Vincent -- the Beast -- is next door. I want you two to meet under happy circumstances this time. I . . . I love him,” she said, blushing prettily. “Please, I know he did a terrible thing, but he really has changed. He’s almost dreading the meeting, so please don’t be too harsh.”

“You always were a good judge of character,” Maurice grumbled, although his eyes twinkled. “But I certainly won’t let him forget the ridiculousness of the fee for that rose anytime soon.”

“Rose?” Belle asked. Her brow furrowed. 

“The one you asked for, before I went to the fair!” Maurice said. “The rose that landed us in this whole mess -- _that_ rose!” He chuckled, keeping his arm around her shoulders, and walked into the dining room to meet Vincent. 

Belle couldn’t help feeling slightly ill. The man who was embracing her was not her father.

\---

The day after the curse had broken, Belle Beaumont and Alexander were sitting next to each other in the library -- ostensibly reading together, but in actuality spending more time smiling and gazing lovingly at each other. Although usually she and the Beast had read silently, discussing their books over meals and during plot twists, Alexander now seemed happy to read aloud with her, as if they were participating in a play. However, Belle reasoned, he was probably getting used to his changed voice again -- she could hardly blame him for that. 

“It seems almost unreal,” he said, squeezing her hand gently. “Ten years, and now we’re finally free.”

“I’m just glad the curse broke in time to save your life,” Belle said. “I can’t imagine what would have happened if you had --” She bit her lip, willing herself not to cry. Normally she wouldn’t have had to, but the last twenty four hours had been very emotionally trying.

“It’s alright,” Alexander said, lifting her hand to kiss it gently. “I didn’t. Although -- how did you know about the curse?”

Belle frowned. He had been in the room with her when the servants had told her -- but, she remembered suddenly, he had also been asleep. And in the weeks afterwards, neither had mentioned it to the other. Belle had assumed that Mrs. Potts or Cogsworth had told him about it at some point, but evidently they had not.

“Alexander, the castle was _alive_ ,” she teased. “Give me a little credit here.”

“Fair enough!” he laughed. “I suppose it was kind of obvious.” He let their hands fall, bouncing off his leg with a faint thud. “I don’t know what we’re going to tell my uncle, though,” Alexander said after a moment. “What possible excuse could we have for ten years’ absence?”

“An illness, maybe?” Belle suggested. “You were quarantined here, but frequent resurgences prevented you ever coming back to the capital until just now? Just a thought.”

“That could work,” Alexander smiled. “I just hope that the regents won’t be too upset at the miraculous ‘recovery’ that has taken place.” He turned to look at her face-on, with soft and earnest eyes. “Now that I think about it, there _was_ an outbreak of illness around that time. I remember that my cousin -- the oldest, Francois -- did actually fall ill. I . . . I hope he survived it.” His gaze faltered.

“Maybe Cogsworth will know,” Belle said. “Until we hear word, there’s no way to be sure either way.”

“You’re right,” Alexander said with a sad smile. 

As if he had been waiting for an introduction, Cogsworth taped once on the door to announce his presence, before entering the room. “Mademoiselle -- your father is awake.”

“Thank goodness,” Belle said, standing up immediately. “Alexander, do you mind if I --”

“Of course not!” he said. “Go to him -- and if he’s awake, please, could you tell him than I --”

“Of course,” Belle said, pressing his hand. “He’s . . . he’s always been protective of me, but he didn’t try to stop me when I came back here -- he helped me get out of the village, instead. Papa will come around, if he hasn’t already.” She walked out the library to the room where Maurice was currently being tended to by the Mrs. Potts. As she left the room, she could hear Alexander begin to bring up the subject of an excuse for his uncle with Cogsworth. 

Belle walked through the castle, nodding politely and greeting any servants she met with a polite smile. The transformation the castle had undergone made it seem almost completely different -- more isolated and taller than she remembered it being, but with all the rooms more enclosed at the same time. She had noticed it yesterday, when the servants and Alexander were celebrating their new forms, but hadn’t said anything about it -- after all, she had never seen the castle before the curse. It had taken Belle far too long to realise that she had somehow been affected by the Enchantress’ magic as well, as only once everybody was settled in the ballroom again had she noticed that she was back in her blue dress. It only made her feel more guilty about the ballgown she had abandoned on the road. Belle had met most of the servants yesterday as well, although she knew she hadn’t greeted all of them yet -- Maestro Cadenza, for one, and Plumette for another, who she still had to thank for her role during the battle.

Outside her father’s room, Belle knocked on the door. Mrs. Potts opened it, ushering her in with a motherly pat on the shoulder, before leaving her alone with Maurice. 

“Belle,” Maurice smiled. “Come over here,” he said, patting the space on the bed beside him. 

Belle hopped up, both worried and touched by the gesture. While she had always been close to her father, they had never been ones for exchanging hugs very often. She rested her head on his shoulder, like she used to as a child, and clasped his hand gently. 

“I was worried about you,” she admitted quietly. “I didn’t realise you were so ill, Papa. Why did you follow me?”

“I couldn’t exactly stay in the village,” Maurice said. “Not after what happened with Gaston -- not to mention the house.”

“The house?” Belle sat up suddenly, almost hitting Maurice’s chin with the top of her head. “What happened to the house?”

“The woodchopper, remember? Chip came within an inch of destroying the whole foundation!” He laughed as he said it, and Belle joined in weakly. “I know your head is somewhat in the clouds, my girl, but I would have thought you’d remember that!” He slung an arm around her shoulders, rubbing his fingers in little circles before dropping a familiar kiss on her forehead. Belle froze. 

“Well, Papa,” she said weakly, “It _has_ been a busy day and a bit.” She smiled at him again, and listened to him chatter on about how kind and attentive Mrs. Potts had been to him -- something which her quiet, stoic, father would never have done, unless they were discussing books together. And suddenly, all of the little things she had noticed -- Alexander not knowing that she knew about the curse, the servant’s varying ages, her change of wardrobe, the ever-so-slightly different way Alexander acted with her, and now her father -- pointed to one logical conclusion.

Something else was terribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That took forever, and I can blame at least part of it on writer’s block when it comes to Belle Beaumont and the ‘91 verse. (good band name or what?)
> 
> M. Morrell’s name is taken from ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’, and the minister will be called Père Robert in both versions for simplicity. 
> 
> Madame de Garderobe calling Belle ‘Bella’ is not a typographical error, but something I came up with when I was RP’ing her on Bittersweet and Strange; it made sense to me that since she’s Italian, she would call her something mildly different -- after all, ‘her name means “beauty”’!. De La Grande Bouche, as far as I’m aware, is the Wardrobe’s name in the musical. 
> 
> So now both Belles know that something’s up! Look forwards to character development and *-*-*magical dream sequences*-*-* in the next few instalments!


End file.
